Blood Red & Sky Blue: A Love Story & Artistic Inquiry into the Nature of Everything

A poem based on a drawing.

Love & rage coiled complementarily

infinitely, aqua blue, blue rain
gushes from a blood red sky,
blood of the blue hypoxia heart
flows oxygenated from (vertically sliced) wrists
and dries, fuses us

together in the last moment, death
casts clouds over each of our cyclopean eyes
rolled back, we rot, they're blood-shot.
Blazing blood red, orange, and neon blue
emissions from flames can't cook the flesh
of my soul-body in death, Challenged to crawl

in exodus, on a burning-bush double-helix  vine
toward you, determined with crimson passion
to reach you, blue & dreary, your gaping
cyclopean, slate-blue eye questioning life while dead
in blood-black surf, blue glowing through white
frozen skin, buried below the beach-sand in the turf.
 
In death, you're still sentient, conscious & creating
entirely operable universes through Investigation
and thorough interrogation of all sources
of media, ideas, idealization of the
soot from soldered & squelched souls you're
sitting in, unknowingly. Totalities are created & destroyed
by the motion & intention of your single hand.

Stop.

In times of panic, calm down. Don’t howl out of a twisted frown. Conceal it & your black shrouded eyes with a socially acceptable glaze of ‘fine’. Don’t dig in the sand piles of Camus’ Beach.

When you’re emotionally overburdened: just don’t feel. Repeat mantras, “I’m happy, I’m happy, I’m happy” 1,000x to prevent intense jolts from molting your layers of defense.

Be as skeptical and resistant to all forms of love or affection as possible. Deny a caring creator, stomach-butterflies, and don’t get too comfortable. Keep walls erected, or risk feeling intense.

Don’t seek, don’t ask, don’t dwell, don’t care, don’t press against your comfortable square. Don’t pull anyone or anything close. Keep away from warmth or risk feeling & boiling.

Expect zilch. Expect zero, nothing positive or negative. Numbers lead to problems & panic mode.

Are you following these directions? Good.

React automatically as follows when asked about your state of being: “Good.” “Fine” is acceptable as well. Subdued facial expressions only.

You’re fine, good, when you stop trying to create, stop pondering & making moods. Stop. Don’t dream or hope. Ride the indifference train, motionless, avoid destinations scary or unexpected.

Drown impulses toward spontaneity in a bottle of mundane routine.

Smother catalysts for feelings & thoughts in any neutral diversion.

The Ugly Narcissist

My grossly underdeveloped clusterfuck of a subconscious
was perforated by a sanctimonious Narcissus:
mottled sheen, bottled scream—
I felt you in my uterus,
thing
& heard your heart
disintegrating.
& I could sleep, scream, sleep—
ugly dripping & purged off my limbs
soaks silk sheets
screams violet, spit flying.
The heart no longer beats
in my cunt continuum
overdrawn by dissent, I spurned,
now 25 years gone & spent, unearned.
Apparently, not a lesson learned. Judgment cast down from the ‘better-than’ saints, made of plaster. Unwanted advice from a fucked up disaster, criticize me on your stilted horse, hypocrite, your moral recourse: bullet-point list of my transgressions.
Fastidiously record everything I’ve done wrong
everything I will do wrong
everything I am wrong
the very essence of me: fucked,
& how you know you’re right
& advise me, compare me
& try to never, ever come across a mirror.

But you can't avoid it forever.